


I Know Your Name

by FlyoutViolet (SleepySappho), SleepySappho



Series: We'll Never Forget Ourselves [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, And They Were Wyatts (Oh My God They Were Wyatts), Dancing, Fluff, Other, Sexual Tension, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySappho/pseuds/FlyoutViolet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySappho/pseuds/SleepySappho
Summary: Wyatt Pothos can pinpoint the exact moment she fell in love with Wyatt Quitter (even if she didn't realise it at the time).
Relationships: Wyatt Pothos/Wyatt Quitter
Series: We'll Never Forget Ourselves [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970569
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	I Know Your Name

Wyatt Pothos can pinpoint the exact moment she fell in love with Wyatt Quitter.

It was at the Season Five after-afterparty, the adults in the team staying up past NaN's bedtime to celebrate yet another losing season by getting absolutely _plastered_. Pothos is leaning in a corner nursing another beer and Quitter has finished making their way through God knows how many shots. They're almost exact opposites when it comes to drinking: Pothos gets quiet, a little contemplative. Most people wouldn't even realize she's drunk unless they knew to watch for the gentle swaying on her feet to the beat of the music, the relaxation of the near-invisible tension she usually carries in her shoulders.

Quitter, on the other hand is exuberance made manifest, all wide smiles and too-loud talking, constantly in motion. Pothos watches them dancing with a slightly uncomfortable looking Dovenpart, screaming along to the lyrics of whatever impossibly generic pop song was playing. Half an hour ago they had yelled that it was "too fucking hot" and tossed a balled up shirt vaugely in Pothos's direction, leaving them in a black bralette and a pair of practically indecent jean shorts. 

Pothos watches a bead of sweat run along their collarbone and takes another sip of beer. She is, after all, a mortal woman. 

And yes, she's always found Quitter _attractive_ , because honestly who wouldn't, but it isn't like she's ever been hurting for prospects in the one-night-stand department, and it's always seemed smarter to her to keep that sort of thing out of what is, at least technically, her workplace. She's been tempted of course, especially when she's a little tipsy like she is right now and when Quitter is walking around looking like that, but nothing has come of it yet. 

She's gotten a little lost in her thoughts, like she usually does after a few beers, and doesn't notice Quitter leaving the dance floor until they're right in front of her, bouncing up and down on their feet.

"Come dance with me!" 

Pothos shakes her head, gesturing towards the half-full bottle in her hand. 

Quitter drapes their arms loosely around Pothos's neck and gives an exaggerated pout which her tipsy brain interprets as _adorable_ and that thought starts setting off alarm bells Pothos didn't even know she _had_ , because _adorable_ is not a thing she looks for in anyone, ever. 

But now that the thought is in her head it isn't in any hurry to leave. Because, yeah, Quitter _is_ adorable, objectively speaking. Especially right now, standing on their tiptoes to reach around Pothos's neck, sticking their bottom lip out in a (increasingly successful) attempt to guilt her into abandoning her drink and joining them on the dance floor. 

Their hair is all messy and Pothos has the sudden and irrational urge to try and mess with it a little more. 

Her brain must be running a little slow again, because Quitter gets fed up with the guilt tripping tactic and moves on to simply snatching the bottle out of Pothos's hand, downing it in two gulps and tossing it into a nearby trash can. "There," they grin triumphantly, "now _dance with me_." 

Pothos is out of reasons to say no, either to Quitter or to herself, so she takes Quitter's hand and lets herself be led into the center of the floor for her public humiliation. 

Quitter flashes that wide, irrepressible smile again and spins around to face away from Pothos, guiding her arms around their waist and backing up until their bodies are _very_ close and _oh shit_ Pothos was not prepared for the fact that "dancing" apparently meant "grinding" because now Quitter is pressing back against her and she's trying to focus on absolutely _anything_ other than what that's doing to her brain right now. 

She searches the room for a distraction and lands on the brightly-colored "WORST SEASON EVER!!" banner hanging from the ceiling. Thinks about the garish lettering, the strange attitude some of her teammates have towards their position as the league's resident losers, the choice of green and purple and _not_ the fact that Quitter is guiding her hands up from her waist to—

Well. Quitter's just a touchy person, especially when drunk. It's not like Pothos hasn't seen them when the uninhibited energy rush wears off late in the night, burrowing in to the closest warm body they can find, not like she hasn't _been_ that warm body more than once before, but this is— well, a _lot_ , even for them.

Quitter must feel the way her hands freeze, muscle locking up as her brain tries to flit through the various implications of this newest development. They turn around in Pothos's arms, still smiling but a little unsure, concerned, reaching a hand up to touch the side of Pothos's face which is, _fuck, not helping_. 

"Everything okay?"

_Yes. No. Maybe. Is it okay if I want to to keep touching you? If I want to kiss you? If I'm about ready to do something really, really reckless because you're just that beautiful?_

Pothos swallows, tries to make her eyes focus on Quitter's face. "Taiga, I— _fuck_ , I mean Wy—" 

Quitter's hand slides from Pothos's cheek to cover her mouth, eyes going wide and dark, staring up at her in shock. "You," they whisper, barely audible above the thumping music, "you remember my name?" 

They don't talk about it. Nobody does. When whatever the hell happened two years ago happened, it had been like their old names just _disappeared_ , like they had never had them. Friends, family had all acted like it was just always this way, like nothing had changed. Pothos hadn't _meant_ to say it, hadn't known whether Quitter even remembered ever being Taiga, whether they remembered but preferred it this way, it had just… slipped out.

Pothos nods and Quitter pulls their hand away from their mouth, never breaking eye contact. "Wanda," they say, the sound heavy in their mouth, and it hits Pothos—hits _Wanda_ like a dip in ice-cold water. It's been _years_ since she last heard her name, her _old_ name, the one she grew up with, the one that means _her_ and not just another aftereffect of whatever fucked up dimensional phenomena tore their city to pieces. 

"I," Wanda starts, feeling dizzy, the whole world seeming inverted, like every particle in the room reversed its spin at the sound of those two syllables. She chokes down a bitter, awkward laugh. "I think I forgot what it sounded like."

Taiga wraps their arms around her waist, burying their face in Wanda's shoulder, matching their swaying to her unconscious rhythm. "You remember me, and I remember you. Then as long as we stick together, we'll never forget ourselves, okay?" 

Wanda mutters a strained "okay," and Taiga replies with a soft hum into her shoulder. Something breaks open in Wanda's chest with an unfamiliar, liquid rush, like she's cut open and bleeding, utterly exposed. She feels soft, pliable like wet clay, out of willpower to fight the urge to slide her hand up into Taiga's hair, not-quite tangling her fingers into the soft brown locks. 

Wanda closes her eyes, lets herself take a moment to relax, and they stay there like that, swaying together in a musically-inappropriate slow dance, until exhaustion drives them to collapse on the ratty old couch pushed up against the wall to make room for dancing, taking a night to pretend they've found a scrap of safety in their cruel, uncertain world.


End file.
